His Violet Eyes
by Kawi Leonard
Summary: Two broken souls- one plauged by an illness that means the end of him, the other haunted by a leering shadow that makes me him prey for the sweet release of death. But a chance meeting brings them together, and one of them is struck with a sudden longing to save the other- at any cost. Rated M for abuse, smut, self-harm, drug abuse, major character death and angst. Thiefshipping.


**A/n:**

**Rated M for angst, major character death, sex, abuse, self-harm, drug abuse, you name it.**

**Enjoy the show.**

* * *

_You try to speak- but silence surrounds you._

_You choke on those words that threaten to drown you._

* * *

"Mr Bakura."

Bakura lifted his head lazily off the pillow, letting his eyes drift towards the source of the voice.

"Mrs Nurse." He smirked cheekily, letting his head slip back down onto the feathered rest beneath him. His head swam slightly with medication, making it hard for him to keep focused on a single thing.

"You might want to sit up, Mr Bakura. I have some things I need to talk to you about."

Bakura snorted, stretching his legs out underneath his hospital blanket covers with a lazy grin.

"I don't really have the energy to do that, nurse." He drawled slowly, mocking exhaustion. He had a pretty good idea what the nurse was about to tell him, anyway.

"Mr Bakura, please." Her voice had an edge. "I urge you to sit up. This isn't a joking matter."

Letting out a huff of breath, Bakura moved his hands to place his palms beneath his back, pushing himself up and shuffling his pillows until he was comfortable once again. He flicked his hair slightly; the white locks had begun to tickle at his eyes. The movement made his head spin, but he ignored it, locking his crimson gaze with the nurse.

She appeared slightly taken back at the colour of his eyes, and she paled slightly.

"You should have taken out your contacts, Mr Bakura." She spoke with the slightest hint of a stutter. "They could of caused you harm."

Bakura raised a hand dismissively, feeling an impatient itch crawling up his arm. "They are not contacts, you silly women. I am an albino. Surely someone of your medical qualification should have noticed that? Or, maybe my completely white hair could have possibly given it away?"

The nurse blushed lightly, and instead of snapping back at her patient, she appeared intimidated.

"You understand the tests you have undergone these past few days, Mr Bakura?" She pressed on, seemingly trying to regain her confidence.

"Stop calling me Mr Bakura, women." He hissed with annoyance. "Just Bakura will do. And yes, I do. I was there for most of them, surprisingly."

"Bakura." The nurse blinked, her tone growing quieter by the second. "Do you understand the implications of-.."

"Bloody hell you blithering bitch, just tell me what we're both thinking!" Bakura snapped, his rage building in him, spitting and constricting his throat.

"Mr Bakura! I will not stand here and take this abuse!" She gasped, taking a step back.

"Well excuse me for being fucking stressed at this entire situation!" He snarled back, narrowing his scarlet eyes. "We both know what you're going to bloody well say, so get on with it."

"Mr Bakura, you have the same illness that killed your mother shortly after she gave birth to you." The nurse let loose the words with an exasperated huff of breath. "We have little medical information on it, the only things we can work with is the little records that were recorded when we housed your mother in this hospital. Your past family members that have fallen prey to this illness never allowed themselves to be evaluated, leaving us slightly clueless."

Bakura didn't speak- he didn't really want to. He continued to glare at the nurse.

"We know very little. All we know is that from this point on, your body may start to fail you. Your mother grew weak and often experienced a dulling of her senses, and often losing them completely. You may have memory loss, and extremes of emotion."

The nurse pursed, looking up from her clipboard at Bakura.

But he didn't speak.

So she pressed on.

"You may experience more- we are unsure. The only way we can find out is for you to experience them first hand."

"I know." Bakura spoke at last, his voice a hard monotone. "I have vague memories of my mother's death, and her downfall. Continue."

"Mr Bakura, you don't have long left to live."

"How long?" Bakura quipped, his voice devoid of emotion.

"We roughly estimate at about a month. Maybe less, maybe more. Your body could fail you tomorrow, or you could last years. On behalf of the team working on your case, we are deeply apologetic for the lack of information we have to give you."

Bakura was silent for a moment, before he clicked his tongue. "Do you know anything about the actual illness, nurse?" He tone had turned slightly subdued, his narrowed eyes loosening slightly.

"It affects your heart, we know that much. It is much like a tumour, but not. It starts out very small, a lump, if you will. But as it begins to develop it develops… Ah, how to put it. They are like long, barbed tentacles. They grow and grow, gripping and boarding your heart, infecting, slowly bringing it to a halt."

Bakura couldn't help it- he gasped lightly. Gore didn't bother him, hell, he liked it! But the thought of that occurring in his body…

"Do you have any family you would like us to contact?"

Bakura snorted, a wave of anger and bitterness suddenly spat at him, and a violent cackle erupted from his jaws.

Family! What a fucking joke. He had none. He'd never have any. Not like he'd fucking consider any bloody fool his family anyway.

"My mother died." He spat savagely. "My father was a no good drug addict, and my twin brother died of cot-death." His breath came in ragged gasps, and his head spun slightly.

The nurse looked taken back- and a little guilty. "I'm sorry. How about a friend?"

"Friends!" The world bubbled at his lips before he could help it. "Who the fuck needs 'em?" He lowered his head slightly. "They know who they are." He grimaced bitterly.

The nurse looked completely at a loss as what to do, and with an apologetic smile, she spoke lightly. "Would you like me to leave you alone, Mr Bakura?"

"Go." He waved a hand at her, and she left the room with a sympathetic sigh, closing the door behind her lightly.

"My sweet, you knew this day was coming, did you not?"

Bakura had scarcely let his eyes slide shut and moved himself into a lying-down position before the melody of words tickled at his ears.

"Mother." He spoke to the hallucination. "Mother."

"My son." She spoke softly, sweeping towards his bed. "You were very brave."

Bakura let out a snort, not opening his eyes to look at the apparition before him. She would fade away again very soon- returning to the deepest, darkest part of his imagination, only appearing again when he most needed her.

"I was not brave." He spat. "I've done nothing with my life. After the death of you, and brother, and the departure of father, I've done nothing but hole myself up in that tiny fucking house, letting my paranoia and social anxieties eat away at me. I didn't do anything. I sat in front of a television and drank my life away. I wasted the free time I had, and now I have a timer hanging over my head, counting to my downfall."

Bakura paused, emotion suddenly gripping him. His next words come out as a strangled sob.

"I'm scared, and I'm alone." He gasped out, tears forming in his eyes. His head fell forward and he held it in his hands, sniffing loudly. "I'm scared, and I'm lonely. And I don't know what to do." He paused, trying to catch his breath. "I need help, mother. Please help me."

He pulled his head from his hands and glanced around in desperation.

But alas, he was alone.

His tears of sadness soon began to heat and turn to tears of rage. He curled his fingers in, digging in his fingernails into the soft flesh of his palm, carving half-moon indents in the pale skin.

"I'm alone." He snarled under his breath, his body shaking with anger. "I always have been. I've never had anyone there for me."

He briefly considered getting out of his hospital bed and smashing up the place, but his rage bolted him down, leaving him no option but to shake and snarl away his pure, undiluted anger.

"So why should I care if I die?" He cackled madly. "There's no one around to miss me- and god knows I won't bloody well miss myself!"

Leaning back, his eyes closed again once more. His mother's sudden appearance had left him tired; his hallucinations often took it out of him.

Quietly, he made a plan.

He'd sleep. He needed his sleep and this hospital bed held more comfort than the stiff, small mattress that awaited him at home. He'd had the same one since he was a child, and when he was younger, his mother used to share it with him. After her death, it still smelt of her, so he'd kept it. Over the years, the calming, soothing smell of roses had faded, leaving Bakura simply a nineteen year old man sleeping on a child's bed.

Soon as he woke up, he'd leave. He had nothing left to do in the hospital, as his illness wasn't curable. The doctors had taken enough information from him already. Besides- he wasn't sure he'd locked his flat, and he had a cat at him to feed. It had only been one night, but Bakura didn't like to keep Ivy waiting.

His throat felt dry and scratchy, and he briefly longed for alcohol. A quick trip to the bar wouldn't hurt him, and it might even make him feel better.

And then what? He didn't know. He guessed he'd feed his cat and see what was on his television. And buy a tv guide to see what was on tomorrow, and just wait to see when he dropped dead?

Sounded like a plan.

A yawn took his mouth over, and he felt slip bite at him gently, pulling him away from the mortal world.

Stretching his lip back over his teeth, he ran a tongue over his sharp canines, before letting his jaws slip shut and shuffling down, nestling his head into the feathered pillow beneath him.

Awaiting death.

* * *

"Marik!"

A short Egyptian boy cringed at the sound of his voice being called, and he hunched his shoulders over slightly, doing his best to ignore it.

Moving his hand to his pocket, he pulled out a young, dead, pink mouse. It was warm in his hand and he rolled it between his fingers a couple of times, marvelling slightly at how soft and vulnerable its tiny skull was.

Pausing his fiddling, he lifting a hand and dived it into a small glass tank in front of him, picking up a sliced in half coconut, exposing an albino-coloured snake.

Holding the dead mouse above his snake, he almost dropped it when the house shook with a roar.

"MARIK!"

He ignored the voice again- that was all he could do. A shudder of fear racked him, and he concentrated on trying to incite his pet to take his prey.

The snake lifted its head slightly, angling it upwards, opening his jaws slightly, his tongue slipping in and out with ease, tasting the air.

"Good boy." Marik cooed, his voice cracking slightly. He was nineteen- his voice had broken long ago, but he had yet to use it today, and it was straining from its lack of use.

The snake suddenly lunged forward, wrapping its jaws around the small mouse, tearing it from Mariks grasp.

With a huff of satisfaction, Marik replaced the lid on top of the cage, feeling rather pleased that he'd managed to catch the small mouse.

At least one person in this house would be eating tonight.

"Marik."

A shudder spat down his spine, and his entire body went cold. The voice was no longer a shout, nor a command.

No, it was much worse.

It was quiet, with a soft edge to it.

And it was close.

Spinning around, he spread his arms in a vain attempt to shield his pet- a surge of protectiveness running through him. His snake was the only personal property he owned, and he adored it dearly.

"You didn't come when I asked you too."

Marik stared up at his father with a mixture of disgust, hate and fear. He swallowed noisily, attempting to put on a brave face.

"I was feeding my snake." Marik said defiantly. "I was just about to come."

"That's not good enough, Marik." His father's voice slipped dangerously low, and Marik was fully aware of what was about to happen.

With a snarl, his father lunged much like Marik had observed his snake doing only moments ago. Letting out a whimper of fear, he felt his father's extreme weight on his chest, forcing him backwards. Skidding on the floor, he managed to avoid contact with the glass of his snake's cage, thankfully, but splinters scored up his arms as he shoved out his palms to steady himself.

"I'm sorry!" Marik burst out, although the words were very robotic.

Of course, he _was _sorry. But he was so used to screaming it out whenever situations like this happened, it slipped out his mouth without him really realising.

His father had him pinned, and with a grunt of effort, he swung his fist, connecting it with Mariks jaw.

His head swung painfully to the left, and he let out a whimper of pain, blood dribbling from his lip down his chin, splattering onto his white shirt and staining it.

"I'm sorry!" He gasped. "Sorry, Sorry, Sorry."

"You better fucking be, you snivelling excuse for a child!" With a snarl, his father grabbed Mariks neck, lifting his head from the ground. For a split second, the Egyptian thought his father was going to help him up, and he'd get off with a lesser beating.

But he was wrong.

With a short laugh, Mariks father slammed his head back down to the wood, once, twice, three times. His blonde hair felt wet, and Marik presumed that blood had begun to leak from numerous wounds.

"I'm sorry." He gasped out weakly, his body starting to freeze up. His father began to pummel his stomach, his beating unrelenting. Marik felt the first few blows, and was vaguely concerned that he was getting bruises on his midriff, bruises that would be seen.

But his mind began to grow cold and numb, and with every beat he received, he grew more distant. One, two, three, he felt like he could look down on his beaten body at this point. One, two, three, he wasn't really Marik anymore- no. Marik was the lifeless body that was being abused and beaten and torn apart by verbal abuse.

He was just a torn and lonely soul, wishing he wasn't confined to such a pathetic and weak body.

His father began to pant, and his blows began to weaken, and they came less and less until he was simply straddling his son's unmoving body.

Marik suddenly felt very heavy, and with a jolt he realised he was returning to his body- or his body was returning to him.

He wanted to stretch his fingers and test his form again, but he knew his father was watching his every move, desperate to see any signs of consciousness.

So Marik could only lay there, motionless, hoping the monster would leave him.

And he did.

With a sweaty grunt, his father lifted himself, and Marik had to use all his self-control not to let out a sigh of relief as the extreme weight was lifted off him.

"Good kid." His father praised, swaying slightly, clearly intoxicated. "You're a good boy, Marik."

His father flicked his fingers on the grimy light switch in the room, plunging Marik into darkness, before shutting the door behind him.

And that's when the tears came.

Heavy and coursing like a raging ocean.

His breath was ragged and his beaten chest heaved with effort of his sudden emotions. He curled himself into a foetal position, wrapping his arms around his knees to avoid further harm.

His eyes stared bleakly into the darkness as he sniffed loudly, his entire body shaking with shock, exhaustion, and throbbing pain.

Everything about him hurt. His jaw ached, and his lip spat with pain as blood continued to drip down his chin and stain his once white shirt. His chest made him hiss with pain every time he took a heavy breath, and his stomach throbbed with hunger and bruises, desperate for peace for only a few hours.

Marik pulled his arms up to cover his face, pressing his lips gently to his wrist.

"Mother." He spoke gently to the tiny tattoo he'd done for himself on the inside of his arm. It was simple- a love heart, coloured in a ying-yang style. "Mother, lend me strength, please." He sobbed lightly.

One day, mother and father had fought.

The next day, Marik didn't see his mother.

The next day, his mother came into his room and held him tightly, trying to cease his crying.

"Daddy hit me!" He had told his mother. "Mummy, daddy hit me!"

"I know, dear." His mother had cooed. "And I'm sorry. I wish I could protect you, my little prince."

"Why are you sorry, mummy?" Marik had previously buried his face into his mother's shirt, and he looked up with wide, innocent violet eyes. "Mummy, you can protect me! If I stay with you, daddy won't touch me!"

Mother had leant down and ran her finger to catch a tear just under the small boy's cheek, before gently stroking his jaw line.

"My little prince." She spoke gently, leaning forward and placing a small kiss on his forehead. "My beautiful, brave little prince. Mummy will wait for you in Egypt. Where we should have stayed. Mummy will see you soon."

With a strangled sob, she had pulled baby Mariks fingers away from her shirt, and dashed from the room, closing it behind her.

He hadn't seen his mother since that day.

Pressing his lips against his tattoo, his tears began to cease, being replaced with a slow, dull numbness.

"Mother, why did you leave?" He felt like he was choking on his sadness. "Mother, why didn't you protect me?"

With a defeated sigh, Marik pulled himself up, heading towards the light-switch and flicking it on, wincing as pain shot around his body as he implored it to move.

Taking a few light steps- careful not to make too much noise as too alert his father- he trotted over towards his snake, peering into the cage.

He hadn't named it; he hadn't seen a reason to. But he really, really adored the reptile. He barely remembered where he got it; he'd just grown up with it. And as his mother disappeared, he was tasked with feeding it, and a bond began to grow.

The snake was not curled up under its half coconut as he expected- instead, its head was poking out, his tongue tasting the air.

"Hey." He greeted it quietly, sniffing loudly, the aftermath of his tears still not entirely over.

The snake didn't move, it simply stared deep into Mariks eyes… with what looked like a trace of sadness.

While the snake had often regarded Marik with a dull, animal glare- fuelled only by self-preservation, it was as if emotion had coloured the albino reptile's eyes.

And they were filled with sadness.

It looked like, if it could only speak, it would be telling Marik not to cry- that it would be okay. That he shouldn't be upset and he shouldn't let his father get to him.

"It's not that easy." He whispered in response to his own thoughts.

But the snake would ask him why he didn't just move out. He was, after all, nineteen. Old enough to get a place of his own and leave behind the abusive past that haunted him?

"He would follow me." Marik sighed, able to keep control of his voice finally. "With mother gone, I'm the only one he has left. He's bigger and stronger than me, and he's able to control me. If I moved out- well, he'd follow me and demand for me to come back. And If I didn't, he'd kill me."

The snake flicked out a tongue, before twisting around, retreating inside its hut, its head facing away from Marik.

Stroking one, tanned finger against the dusty glass, Marik glanced out at the window, realising that the moon was hanging in the indigo sky, shadowed by a freckled array of stars.

He cast a glance back at his bed, but the stale sheets and lice-ridden blankets and pillows held no appeal to him. Energy suddenly coursed through him, and he knew he wouldn't be spending the night in his bed tonight.

"I'll be back." He promised quietly to his snake, but even if it heard him, it gave no notice.

With a huff, he made his way towards his window, and with a grimace of effort and pain, he placed his palms on the window sill, pulling himself up.

Shoving the window out as far as it would go; he slipped out of it with some difficulty- his muscled frame made it slightly hard for him to get out without scraping himself on anything.

Not that he particularly cared, really. Glancing down at his bare arms, he grimaced at the criss-crossing of self-inflicted scars that glared up at him, mixed with old sacrificial tattoos that had been burnt or cut into his skin.

They were all unwanted scars, however. Tattoo or knife mark, they each told a story of pain, submission and unwelcome memories.

Grumbling, he let the night breeze hit him before he set off, trying to wash away his negative mood. He avoiding going to the front of the house, painfully aware that all it would take was him walking past a window, and his father would be out in a shot, dragging him down and kicking the fucking shit out of him for being outside.

Gritting his teeth with frustration, he quickly made up his mind as to where he planned to go. He was old enough to drink in public, so he began walking in the general direction of a bar which was about a twenty minute walk away.

It was all he could think of to do. And besides- drinking wasn't that bad. It was either this or a date with a pair of knives.

He shuddered.

That was something he was trying to avoid.

Running a hand through his blonde hair, Marik grimaced against the wind, bowing his head against it, making his way forward.


End file.
